


The Seasons Never Change, and the Weather Stays the Same

by sugarboat



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Fisting, Anal Sex, Begging, Consent Issues, Dom/sub Undertones, Double Penetration in One Hole, Dubious Consent, M/M, Oral Sex, Praise Kink, Sexual Coercion, Voyeurism, light humiliation, oral cockwarming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-21 21:16:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17650004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugarboat/pseuds/sugarboat
Summary: The Archives work up a debt to Peter Lukas and Jon pays it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A fill for [this prompt](https://rusty-kink.dreamwidth.org/1380.html?thread=57188#cmt57188), that I just kind of ran with.
> 
> Serious canon discrepancies after season 3. :)

The air of Elias’ office becomes abruptly more breathable the moment Peter leaves it. A weight that Jon hadn’t even noticed anymore lifting, and the next inhalation he takes is clearer, somehow. It’s no wonder the Institute is in the state it is. Loneliness, wet and corrosive, seeping into joints and spaces and gorging itself therein.

“I warned you about the Lukases, Jon,” Elias says. There’s the creak of leather as he sinks into his chair and Jon at last pulls his gaze away from the door. 

“Well, Elias, there’s only so much I can do to keep the Lukases happy from a coma,” Jon snaps. 

Recent enough to the event in question that Jon’s limbs still feel oddly wooden as he stalks across the room to Elias’ desk. Plasters above his collarbones, on either side of his throat, just peeking out from the neck of his shirt. He can practically feel Elias’ gaze sweep over him, lingering on these details of his reanimation. Jon wishes the feeling was less welcome. 

“Is that your excuse, then?” Elias asks him, making no moves to leave his seat while Jon comes around the side of his desk. He does shift it back, tilting his head to maintain eye contact. “And which of your assistants will be taking the blame for this?” 

“None of them,” Jon answers, freshly irritated. Elias raises an eyebrow in response and Jon continues, “He can’t have Martin.” 

“No? It would be an easy enough thing, and while I understand you have had your _attachment_ issues in the past-”

“Martin is ours,” Jon says. Or rather, he almost snarls it, and snaps his jaw shut in the wake of it. Eyes wide when he looks at Elias and he wonders if they can both feel the echo of an old question in the room. _Am I still human, Elias?_ “What I- I meant, Martin will be safer here. With the Institute. I’m not Gertrude, I won’t be like her.” 

He won’t sacrifice his assistants – their lives – as pawns in some greater game of chess, particularly when they can’t even see the board they’re meant to be marching across. 

Ignoring that he already has. Elias’ expression does nothing to hide that he’s thinking the same thing, and Jon braces himself to hear it out loud. Instead, Elias sighs and says, “This isn’t going to go away, Jon.” 

“Of course it isn’t,” Jon says. As though anything in his life could ever be so easy. This close to Elias, for the first time in months, he can see how the man is waned, somehow, his edges unpolished even while every outward inch of him is the pressed suit and well-groomed front he presents. “And I don’t suppose friendship is enough of a reason for Peter Lukas to indulge in clemency.” 

“Certainly not. The Lukases are quite particular about their debts, as you are well aware.” 

“So, what, he’s going to toss one of us into the Lonely and be done with it?” 

And why wouldn’t Jon then think of Elias fetching his bones from some lonely, rotted place. Libraries with their books all wetted with dew. He also thinks of himself, fetching Martin’s salt-scoured bones, and feels his skin crawl. 

“I couldn’t begin to tell you what he’ll want,” Elias says, sounding gratifyingly annoyed. “I’m sure he’ll be in touch soon enough.” 

“Right. And you’ll just bend yourself over backwards to give him whatever he wants,” Jon goads. Knowing it’s petty and that he should stop himself, and not wanting to all the same. 

“ _We_ will, within reason,” Elias corrects, acid on his tongue, “If that’s what it takes. I realize you have difficulties seeing beyond the immediacy of your and your assistants’ lives, but these alliances are fragile.”

“Can’t let the Institute’s coffers drain.”

“Sarcasm aside, yes, Jon, that is a possible concern.” Elias’ words are tight and terse, pale gaze pinning Jon in place. Jon finds himself thinking of his dreams, trying to remember which colors surrounded the great, vast pupil that followed him endlessly. “Your assistants have already had some difficulties adjusting to the peculiarities of their jobs-”

“A bit of an understatement,” Jon mutters under his breath.

“-I can only imagine it would be that much worse if they were no longer being compensated for their efforts,” Elias finishes. 

Jon scowls at him for a moment, feeling the tension along his jaw as his teeth clench, and then it all just snaps, suddenly, and drains. Elias has a point, demeaning and dismissive as it is. He often does, a trait that Jon is particularly unhappy about. 

“Fine,” Jon says. “So, what now? Crawl on our knees to Mooreland House and beg Peter for his forgiveness?” 

“Much as he would undoubtedly enjoy that, I hardly think such melodrama is warranted,” Elias says, as though the entire situation isn’t rife with melodrama already. “I will be in contact with Peter, and once he’s come up with a solution we can both agree is reasonable, I’ll let you know.” 

“You tell me to jump and I-”

“I’ll expect you to do so, yes,” Elias interrupts. Steeled words that broker no argument. “Or I’ll expect you to provide someone who will.” 

Even Jon can tell this discussion isn’t going to go any further. In all likelihood Elias is considering himself indulgent for granting Jon the opportunity at all. Allowing Jon to thrash and writhe on the hook Beholding’s shoved through his guts, knowing as he does how Jon will be reeled inwards all the same. 

Jon should leave. A portion of himself wants to do just that, turn on his heel and slam Elias’ door behind himself. Instead, he finds himself studying Elias, the angle at which his neck is craned to study Jon in turn. His hand rises of what he almost wishes were its own accord, and he traces a finger along the side of Elias’ jawline, breath stilled as he waits for Elias to stop him. 

Questions pool like welling oil on his tongue until one spills out between his lips, “What was it like for you to be away from the Institute?” 

Elias takes in a sharp breath. He refuses to take his eyes from Jon. “We aren’t tied to any single place, Jon. Perhaps the Eye can be felt more firmly here, but there is nowhere either of us could go that it would not follow.” He pauses, considering, and amends, “That we would not follow it.” 

“You saw my dreams,” Jon says. It isn’t a question – he’s heard the tape. “You know what was in them.” 

“I do.” 

“Have you ever experienced that? With the Eye?” Falling into its endless hunger and knowledge, broken down and remade. Realizing that something has been missing and being granted it, again and again, and deprived of it each time. 

“I can’t tell you that,” Elias admits, voice strained with effort. His hands are clenching on the armrests. “Not yet.” 

“How often did you watch them?” Jon asks. He dares a step closer, Elias’ knees parting to allow him there. “How many times did you watch me fall into it?” 

“Countless,” Elias breathes. “I watched you go towards it, Jon. How you were filled with terror and dread. At first. But you stopped fearing it, didn’t you? At the very least, you didn’t fear it as much as you longed for it.” 

“I never-” Jon begins, and stops, prickly fervor along his veins because he might have grown to accept the flaying of himself before Beholding’s lidless eye but he never gets used to the feeling of Elias doing the same. “What did you think about when you watched me?” 

A fine tremor shakes it way up Elias’ body. Jon watches the subtle, rolling motion until it reaches where his hand is still touching Elias’ jaw. The muscle flexes beneath his fingers, Elias clenching his jaw shut against compulsion. He wants to know so much. 

“Were you jealous?” Jon asks. Elias shifts restlessly in his seat. “Of me? Or of the Eye?” 

Elias lets out a shivering laugh and looks almost fondly at Jon as he says, “It isn’t one or the other. Even now- no, especially now – I can see our master looking out through your eyes.” 

Fondness that takes on a sudden, hungry cast as Elias leans forward, though there’s hardly enough space between them to do so. Jon swallows. Desperate to retreat, to regain ground lost, but instead he doesn’t move. Only flinches when Elias settles his hands on hips, grounding in a way Jon finds he needs, grip tightening to near pain. 

“You’re free to deny it all you like, Archivist – and I suspect you will for some time to come yet – but you know it as well as I do.” Jon did. Not from himself, no, but he knew what Elias meant. A shadow of the thing they both served cast across the pale of Elias’ gaze. “Deny it, hate it, fear it – want it. All of these emotions, they’re what make you so perfectly suited for your role.”

Elias closes the remaining distance between them, and presses his lips to the clothed stretch of skin just above Jon’s hip. Any command Jon might have hoped to maintain thoroughly ceded at this point, as he lets his fingers tangle into Elias’ hair, and it’s Jon’s turn to shudder when Elias finally continues. 

“That’s why, when the time comes, you’ll mantle the Watcher’s Crown,” Elias murmurs into his abdomen. “And I’ll be there to see what you become.”


	2. Chapter 2

Peter doesn’t come to collect for days after their conversation. Jon would like to say the entire thing had slipped from his mind, but it really hadn’t. Even as he had more pressing matters to attend to – Desolation rearing its flaming head, Melanie’s now undeniable deterioration, the fact that Elias had finally, _finally_ said something about Beholding’s own potentially impending rite – Jon found himself brooding on the matter in his free time. Waking from his dreams of wandering a graveyard with a fresh pit of dread souring in his stomach.

When Elias calls Jon into his office, letting him know what he and Peter have decided, it’s a relief for all of a few seconds. Until the request has time to fully sink in and Elias sits quietly behind his desk as Jon paces back and forth across the room. Arguing against a defense Elias never bothers to rally. Irritatingly calm and measured, even when Jon smacks his hands down onto the desk and demands a reaction.

And is only told what he already knows. Their limited amount of options. The consequences thereof. How Peter’s payment is non-negotiable, though the person he’ll accept to complete it is less so. In the end Jon relents, with Elias’ hand tight around his wrist, his thumb rubbing at the stretch of skin above his pulse point. Assuring Jon that the situation will be controlled. That Elias will be present. That Peter’s intention isn’t to hurt him in any way. 

Just humiliate him, Jon can’t help but to consider resentfully. 

Nonetheless Jon finds himself in Elias’ flat, nursing a whiskey neat in a living room that looks utterly artificial. Dusted and meticulous, hung with paintings playing host to too many eyes, books that Jon stares at dourly and thinks Elias has probably never even opened. Feeling even more on edge when he recognizes a few of the titles as ones he has either owned before or read. Coincidences are hardly Elias’ forte. 

“Looking a touch jittery there, Archivist,” Peter says. Jon flinches, tearing his gaze away, and glowers when he’s proved Peter right. “Not having second thoughts, are you?” 

“As if that would matter,” Jon mutters. Peter’s grin, a perpetual thing in itself, widens immeasurably. 

“No, I suppose it wouldn’t. Nerves getting to you?” Before Jon can respond Peter sets his own glass down and crooks his finger at him. Beckoning Jon over. “What do you say we just get started early, then?” 

“Will that really be necessary, Peter?” Elias asks. Jon’s gaze flicks over to him, languid in his seat, more relaxed even than he would have been in his office. It shouldn’t be as surprising as it is, and Jon’s annoyed all over again that he seems to be the only one uncomfortable here. 

“I consider it a favor more than a necessity,” Peter says. “Finish your drink, Archivist, and come here.” 

“I agreed to certain- acts, but not to- to catering to your every passing whim.” Almost undermining himself, Jon drains his drink in one long pull, trying to enjoy the blossoming heat of it in his mouth, down his throat, pooling in his stomach. 

“There’s the spirit,” Peter cheers. He raises his own glass in mock salute. Jon can’t help his eyes being drawn to the hand holding it aloft. “Think of it as a warm-up. We should all get a bit better acquainted, wouldn’t you say?” 

“I would say we’re well enough acquainted already.” As well acquainted as Jon has ever wanted to be with the man. 

“Is he always like this?” Peter asks, his attention abruptly shifted to Elias. Jon’s relieved and irritated in conflicting degrees. 

He wants to say something goading and waspish in response – Peter’s demanded his presence here, after all, he’ll be damned if they go on to talk about him as if he’s not in the room – but he follows Peter’s gaze and finds Elias already watching him. It’s the most undone Jon has ever seen him, free of his tie and with the first few buttons of his shirt open. And his eyes are bright and interested, boring in their intensity, and Jon can only look away from them long enough to watch Elias’ mouth curve, sharp-edged, with amusement.

“No,” Elias replies. Continuing to watch Jon. “He isn’t. Come here, Jon.” 

Like the request is any better coming from Elias rather than Peter. Jon considers digging his heels in, but really, it’s not so great of a concession to make. The least of the indignities he’ll be suffering tonight, of a surety. And the alcohol has finally radiated outward to the rest of his body, too. That’s probably why it seems like such a good idea to get to his feet and cross the short distance to stand before Elias’ chair, ignoring Peter entirely as he passes him. 

“And all this time I’d been thinking you were giving your pet too much lead, Elias,” Peter says. Jovial, and with that hint of sneering undertone it seems to carry so often. 

Jon feels himself bristle. Elias reaches forward, hand cool and firm around Jon’s wrist again. Still watching him when he replies, “He’s far more than just a pet, Peter.” 

It sends an unfamiliar swooping sensation through Jon’s gut. As if his stomach has dropped and flipped itself, indignancy and disbelief, a whole slurry of angry emotions that are accompanied by a shock of bolting heat that floods his body. Burns high in his cheeks and clenches in his ribs and sinks lower, too, all of it inspired by such casual, dismissive ownership. 

“I am not a pet,” Jon manages to spit. 

“Course you aren’t,” Peter answers, while Elias just maintains his steady gaze. “You’re your own person, right, Jon?” Peter pauses with exaggerated thoughtfulness. “Well. Except for tonight, I suppose.”

“Yes, thank you so kindly for the reminder,” Jon snaps. 

“Oh, it’s nothing but my pleasure.” Of course. “And speaking of, I really think it’s time for all of us to get started. So why don’t you go ahead and undress, and show me exactly what’s so worthy of my leniency.” 

“Do let me know if I don’t live up to your exacting standards,” Jon says. In lieu of acknowledging the cold seepage of dread Peter’s words have inspired. Peter smiles at that, an expression lacking entirely in kindness. Almost a contrast is Elias’ hand squeezing tighter around his wrist for just a moment before withdrawing in lingering strokes. Jon finds himself more willing to look at Elias than otherwise as his hands go shakily to the top buttons of his shirt.

Perhaps, knowing as he had exactly what he was getting into, Jon could have worn something easier to shuck off himself. As it is he finds himself hurrying through the motions, folding his shirt quickly and setting it on the low coffee table that seems to have been cut from a single slab of marble. Draining the Institute’s coffers indeed. He rips his undershirt off as well and studiously ignores the low whistle Peter gives in response. 

“A bit scrawny, isn’t he?” Peter asks, obnoxiously obvious that he’s talking to Elias. Jon hems and haws before ducking down to take care of his shoes. Maybe he should have started there.

“An unfortunate complication,” Elias murmurs. He sounds, strangely enough, regretful in some way, while Jon keeps his gaze glued to his own hands, feeling heat creep up the back of his neck. Ridiculous, because he barely cares what his own body looks like, and has never particularly expected anyone else to do otherwise. “The statements he had collected were enough to sustain his body, but only just.”

“I’m right here,” Jon says as he stands. Holding onto the tiny scrap of ire as he undoes his belt and slacks, shoving them down to puddle about his ankles. 

“Sounds like your Archivist is in dire need of feeding to me,” Peter says. Jon’s not sure if he refers to literal food or statements, and assumes that’s probably the point. 

“I have every faith Jon will take what he needs,” Elias says. “Though you may have a point; he’s grown bored of his collection already, haven’t you, Jon?” 

Jon freezes in the act of stepping out of his slacks. Caught off guard that he’s being addressed when he’d begun to assume that they were content to ignore him. Surprised at the question itself, feeling once again that Elias has reached too deep, too easily inside him. It’s a sensation that’s rapidly becoming familiar.

“I-I-”

“Hush, Archivist, I’m sure it was rhetorical,” Peter interrupts. “And I have better uses for your mouth than hearing you speak.” 

Jon’s momentarily speechless, and before he can do much more than sputter Peter has continued.

“Don’t respond to that, please. Finish undressing yourself, or I’ll be forced to assume you’re in want of a helping hand.” 

That’s possibly the last thing Jon wants, excluding everything else about this night. And Jon can’t shake the feeling that that was Peter making his horrible idea of a joke, considering some of the activities he has planned for later in the evening. A feeling lessened not at all by the overtly self-satisfied grin on Peter’s face, that only widens when Jon glares daggers at him. 

But Jon does as he’s told, hoping the loathing is plain on his face as he drops his pants to the floor as well and shuffles free of them. He folds his arms tight across his chest, feeling tense and sharp-angled. Unwilling to let himself indulge in any instinct to hide himself away. 

Peter gives a slow clap. Jon feels heat flooding his face. Somehow, he’s sought out Elias again. Unable to place the emotions in his chest in any sort of proper order. If Elias’ presence here is reassuring or irritating – if his witnessing this in person is some kind of balm across the worst of Jon’s utter humiliation or if it furthers the degradation.

Elias meets his gaze calmly enough, and Jon would like to tell him to put a stop to all this, knowing full and well the good it would do. But Peter tells him to turn - _let’s see what we’re working with now, come on_ \- and Elias’ expression remains unchanged. Teeth gritted, Jon does a slow turn, stopped by Peter grabbing onto his right wrist once he’s shifted to face the man, turning it and pulling him closer in one forceful motion. 

“Looks like some other people got here first, Elias,” Peter says, tracing a finger along the winding path of melted flesh Jude left up almost to Jon’s elbow. Jon shivers, remembering heat shunting through his very veins, the feeling of being boiled from the inside out. 

“Jon’s made a habit of gaining first-hand experience from the other Entities he’s encountered,” Elias says. As mild and bland as if this conversation were taking place in his office. 

“I can see,” Peter says. He doesn’t sound disapproving at all. “Well this one’s obvious, isn’t it? Our little pyromaniacs.” His grip on Jon’s arm is relentless, drawing him in closer like tides drawing away sand. “And these?” Peter thumbs at one of the thicker ovals littering Jon’s skin and grins. Glances over to Elias. “From your infestation problem? Honestly, I know you have your hands-off policy-”

Something clicks at that exact second for Jon. He halfway turns, staring at Elias. “You knew about Jane Prentiss’ hive.” 

“Oops. Cat’s out of the bag on this one.” 

“Yes,” Elias says, and he doesn’t even have the decency to sound contrite about it at all. Jon wishes any of it were more surprising. “I knew about the hive.” 

“And I don’t suppose you have anything to say for yourself,” Jon snaps. Searching for a familiar anger and finding it difficult to stoke. 

“Nothing you don’t already know, Jon. Nothing I haven’t told you before.” 

_This, at least, Gertrude understood._

Jon can’t tell if he’s reached a state of resignation or acceptance. He isn’t sure how he’d tell the difference either way. 

“Lovely aside as that was,” Peter says, tugging at Jon’s arm until his attention returns, “I think I’d like to see you on your knees now.” 

“Of course you would,” Jon mutters. 

He still goes to his knees, reluctant as the action is, and sighs, rolling his eyes, when Peter parts his legs in a wide, inviting angle and ushers Jon between them. Peter takes hold of Jon’s chin with one hand and tilts his head back. The other brushes fingers down the line of his throat. Pausing at the long, thin scar Daisy left him. 

“The Hunt,” Jon answers the unspoken question. Peter raises an eyebrow, and the fingers leave his throat. Peter’s thumb runs across his lip.

“Interesting. You do have quite the collection started, don’t you?” His grip on Jon’s jaw tightens. “Maybe I’ll leave you with a little something myself. If you’re good, that is. If you earn it.” 

Jon scoffs, and would tell Peter exactly where he can shove his generous offer except that Peter takes the opening of his mouth as invitation to hook his thumb inside it and jerk his lower jaw down.

“I remember telling you something about your mouth, didn’t I?” Peter asks him. He withdraws his thumb and wipes it off in a wet smear against Jon’s cheek. “Go on, what did I say?” 

Resentment and mortification alike simmer hot in his stomach, but Jon recites, rote and dry, “You have better uses for my mouth than hearing me speak.” 

“Ah, yes, that’s right.” Peter’s hands are in his lap, working his slacks open just far enough to free his cock. It’s flushed and thick already, and Peter coaxes himself harder with a loose fist. “Do you want more direction than that? Open up and suck my cock, Archivist.” 

Peter keeps one hand around his cock, angling it towards Jon’s mouth. The other draws through Jon’s hair, petting back until he tangles his fingers it in and guides Jon forward by the grip. Uninterested, apparently, in letting Jon adjust to him or set his own pace, as the moment he opens his mouth Peter is drawing him down onto his cock until the broad head of it is pressing into his throat. He sets Jon free when the Archivist rears back, coughing. 

“Elias and I discussed this, you know,” Peter says. He’s rubbing the head of his cock with a palm, spreading the slick of saliva left there along its length. “We both think you’re going to have quite a lovely time, when all’s said and done. Elias, for some reason, doesn’t think I’ll be able to make you beg for me.” 

His hand sinks back into Jon’s hair and he pulls him closer, into position. Peter releases a sigh as Jon opens his mouth and takes his cock again. Jon tries to focus on staying relaxed. Studying the weight of it filling his mouth, on his tongue, smooth hot flesh that tastes distantly of salt. His jaw stretching around it, and he makes a surprised, muffled noise when Peter pops the head of his cock – followed quickly by a not unsubstantial length of it – into his throat. Drags Jon down until there’s nothing left to take and holds him there while he squirms. 

“But I know your type,” Peter tells Jon once he’s released him again. “You Beholding lot are so greedy, snatching up everyone’s fear and making it your own. And I bet you’ll be just as eager to be fed a cock as you would a statement.” 

Jon glowers at him, licking at his lips. His throat is already beginning to ache, and he doesn’t have much hope that this particular facet of his evening is going to end early on his account. Peter’s dick curves upward towards his stomach, glistening wet with spit. And his words inspire a twisting kind of heat along Jon’s spine. Sinking between his thighs, where he’s starting to feel the barest stirrings of interest. 

And almost like he’s determined to prove Peter right at every turn, Jon pauses with Peter’s dick pressing against his lips. Asks him with compulsion shivering on his tongue, “Why are you doing this?” 

Before his mouth is put to better use once more. 

“Because I want to,” Peter answers with a wide, benevolent smile. His hips jerk up, cock twitching against Jon’s tongue. “Because I think you’ll look good speared on my cock, and even better mounted on my fist.” 

Jon pulls himself back to take a sharp gasp of air. And sinks back down readily enough, swallowing Peter’s cock while he continues, “Because Elias likes you, and I want to make him watch me take you apart. Because I kept my end of the bargain and still had to deal with your assistants’ little insurrection attempts.

“But the main reason is that you’re a good Archivist, Jon. Good enough that people have noticed. Good enough that people are nervous, and I’m really looking forward to bringing you to heel.” 

Jon’s watched him the whole time. Less aware of the cock still stretching his mouth and throat open than of the feeling of Peter succumbing to the compulsion, loosening his bedrocks and prying secrets free – however single-minded those secrets seem to be. He feels flushed with it, Peter’s words lazy pulses of heat chased by the sensation of being watched, and being seen, and he doesn’t want to look away from Peter but he also wants to see Elias – to feel the feedback loop that snares so often between the two of them. 

Peter lets out a breathless laugh. Apparently having noticed, finally, what happened. “Oh, that mouth of yours is going to cause trouble someday.”

“He is something, isn’t he?” Elias says, voice low and heated. “My Archivist.” 

It draws an unexpected moan out of Jon – or what would have been a moan if it wasn’t cut off so absolutely by Peter snapping his hips up, choking the noise where it reverberates in his throat. Jon claws at his thighs for support while Peter proceeds to fuck his mouth, pummeling his throat relentlessly and holding Jon flush to himself when he’s bottomed out, cursing under his breath whenever Jon tries to gag around cock. 

“Much as I would love,” Peter pants, “To fill every inch of you with come, Jon” -he pulls Jon roughly off his dick, and hisses out a breath between clenched teeth while he squeezes harshly at the base of his cock- “I really would prefer to wait for the main event, wouldn’t you?” 

Jon doesn’t answer, too busy trying to catch his breath, wiping at the saliva that’s drooled over his chin. The tracks of spilled, involuntary tears down his cheeks. Peter catches him at it, looking more human than ever with his face flushed and hair disheveled from exertion. He cups his palm against one of Jon’s cheeks – says nothing if Jon leans quietly into the touch – and rubs with his thumb at the corner of Jon’s eye. 

He’s almost gentle in how he guides Jon to his cock again, and only makes him take most of it into his mouth before he holds him there. 

“Yes, I think we’ll just wait,” Peter says. “Elias and I still need to finish our drinks, after all.” Jon watches him take a slow sip of it, as if in emphasis. “You, Archivist, can just stay right there. Keep that mouth of yours doing what it does best.” 

Annoyed, and in response, Jon squirms his tongue against the underside of Peter’s dick, earning himself a grunt and a yank of his hair in turn. 

“Try not to do it quite so well – I know it comes naturally to you, but a modicum of self-control isn’t too much to ask, I hope.” 

“As I’ve already demonstrated, Peter, he can be quite well behaved when he needs to be,” Elias says. 

Jon shivers. It’s as if one of them pushes and the other pulls, and all of it results in Jon beginning to feel unspooled at his edges. Peter pets through his hair and settles back further into his chair. Jon has to shift, following him with his mouth. And then, that’s it. Peter and Elias begin to discuss some of the finer points of the Institute’s function, including, to Jon’s somewhat self-centered shock, managerial details that don’t involve the Archives at all. 

Impossible as it to separate either of the monsters sharing the room with him from the inherent horror Jon’s come to associate with the Institute. But Peter catches Elias up on the various changes of departments while he was- incapacitated, Peter calls it, though he has that tone which plays at serious while still bursting at its seams with private amusement. And he strokes his hand through Jon’s hair when he does so, rubs at Jon’s lips stretched around his cock. 

They talk and Jon kneels there with his mouth around Peter’s cock. Softening against his tongue while his jaw grows sore, and every time he swallows he feels the sting of taking Peter reignited in his throat. It’s not awful. Jon leans some of his weight against Peter’s leg.

And there is something to be said for the feeling of Peter growing hard again when he sucks at the head of his dick. Jon maps the surface of his cock with his tongue, noting the areas that make Peter shift and teasing at them until Peter stills him with a hand on his jaw, digging pressure into the hinges. It happens more than once, as Jon grows mostly bored with their conversation, and on the last instance Peter clamps a hand on the back of Jon’s neck and fucks into him again with long, languid thrusts.

“I think our Archivist here is ready to get started with the main event,” Peter says. Elias makes a noise that’s not exactly pleased. Peter goes balls deep in Jon’s throat one final time with a satisfied groan and pulls him off. “Come on, up.” 

Jon leans back on his heels, working at his jaw. Flushed when he finds the sensation of his mouth empty almost unfamiliar after however long he’s spent on his knees. He wipes at his face, grimacing at the mess that’s been made of him again. He hears the creak of Elias’ chair. Looks over to find Elias has come closer, offering Jon a hand which he accepts shakily. 

There’s an understated kind of strength to Elias’ grip, which Jon should know better than to be surprised by at this point. He did beat a man to death with a pipe. Jon still finds himself briefly unbalanced when Elias assists in hauling him to his feet, pins and needles in his legs and joints grinding with ache. It brings them into closer proximity than was probably intended, and is the most appropriate time for Jon to remember he’s not wearing a scrap of clothing. 

Elias watches him like he knows the exact contents of his thoughts, amused even as Jon thinks that strange intensity is still present. His hand is tight around Jon’s. Jon flinches when the other finds his side, cupped close to his hip. Slides with feather light softness around to stroke at the small of his back, Elias’ fingers dragging up and down his spine. 

It’s almost enough to make him forget about the greater circumstances surrounding them. Or rather, it makes him think about circumstances far, far greater, the thing that adds so much unique weight to Elias’ gaze. He wants to close the distance between them, badly, probably obvious in that fact. The temptation is nearly enough, and he’s only stopped by the sound of Peter doing himself up behind him, and-

And a yelp, from himself, as Peter slaps his ass. 

“Do you mind?” Jon snaps, clearing his throat at the rasp of his voice. Elias lets go of his hand, which is regretful, until his touch moves to Jon’s chin, guiding him to look at him again. Tilts his head just slightly so Elias can dip forward and fit their lips together, briefly. 

“Someone has to keep the two of you on track,” Peter answers. He palms at the reddened skin of Jon’s ass. 

“I assure you, Peter, your enjoyment is our top priority,” Elias murmurs. He’s still watching Jon as he says it. There’s one last lingering stroke of Elias’ thumb along his cheek and then Elias has pulled away. “Come along, Jon.” 

Then Elias is walking farther into his flat and Peter has his hands on Jon’s hips, ushering him after. It reminds him, suddenly, of exactly what he’s agreed to. What’s sure to come next, and Jon feels dread twisting up his guts. It’s a familiar enough feeling that Jon’s not slowed by it in any way, his heart beating painfully fast by the time they’ve reached the door Elias has left open for them. 

“On the bed,” Peter demands. Jon’s distracted by the sight of him beginning to make quick work of his clothing. Glowering at the wink Peter gives him when he notices Jon watching, nodding his head towards the bed in question. 

The bed in question, which is ostentatiously massive. Large enough that Jon has no idea where he would position himself on it, and after a stressful, silent debate he ends up perching on the edge of it. Back to watching Peter undress, or glancing over to where Elias has pulled a chair to the bedside. Elias has his sleeves rolled up, baring his forearms.

“Feeling skittish again, Archivist?” Peter asks. Naked now, and Jon finds himself studying him oddly dispassionately. Peter’s broad everywhere, and tall, heavily built as if he has to withstand the rough pull of the tides himself. 

“No,” Jon says shortly. 

Keeping his spine rigidly straight when Peter stalks closer to him, willing himself not to move away. Allowing Peter to crowd into his space. Nerves probably betrayed by, well, a lot of things, the tension of his body or the clenching of his hands into the comforter. Peter’s hands are on his legs, sliding up towards his hips. Peter’s mouth at the crook of his neck with just a short graze of teeth over his skin. 

“Go ahead,” Peter says, breath warm against him, “Get up on the bed.” 

Jon scoots back and Peter follows. Looking properly predatory while Jon feels increasingly cornered, until Peter stills him with one hand clamped onto his thigh. Stills him and drags him a bit closer to himself, pushing at Jon’s legs to encourage them open. 

“Lie down, Archivist,” Peter says, and crawls on top of him when he does so. Pressing him down into the mattress as he suddenly claims Jon’s mouth, nipping hard at his lips until Jon parts them with a gasp and then there’s a tongue coaxing into his mouth, lapping at his own. Demanding and insistent and leaving Jon breathless in its wake. 

“Peter,” Jon murmurs. 

He licks at his lips, glancing quickly beyond Peter to where Elias remains seated. It’s difficult to tell what his expression means, how he’s leaned forward in his chair – how he’s already watching Jon when Jon seeks his gaze. Jon’s attention is drawn back when Peter leans in and digs his teeth into the side of his neck. A stinging pain that fades to a dull burn when Peter pulls back to soothe his tongue across the mark he’s made. 

Peter sits back. He pets at Jon’s thighs, before shoving them farther apart. Reaching between them to roll his balls in one hand, and Jon hisses, jerking in his grasp. Peter smiles, tightening the grip he has on them, his other hand coming to palm at Jon’s stubbornly soft cock. Jon shifts restlessly beneath his hands, pleasure creeping up his spine, tempered – or whetted – by the discomfort of Peter’s hands tightening too far, twisting and pinching his flesh.

“That’s better,” Peter says, condescending as Jon’s body begins to respond. “Are you about ready to get started?” 

No. Jon’s quite sure he’s never going to be ready, but he nods, because he’d rather just get this over with if it’s going to happen anyway. “Get on with it.” 

“Eager now? Well, never let it be said I don’t give exactly what I’m asked for.”

Peter leans to the side, coming back with a bottle of lube he uses to slick up the fingers of his right hand. Jon props himself up slightly to watch. Struggling not to consider the breadth of Peter’s hand at all. To not imagine Peter shoving the entirety of it inside him, and there’s no way it will ever fit. Or if it does, no way it won’t warp him irreversibly, and he’s far enough into his head that he jumps at the cool touch of Peter’s finger at his rim. 

“Just relax, Jon,” Peter says. “One finger at a time, right?” 

Peter’s fingertip circles him, teasing over his sensitive skin, enough pressure to just threaten entrance. It leaves Jon’s hips twitching, angling upwards, and he sighs as Peter finally deigns to shove inside. Breath hitching when Peter adds a second too quickly, a burning, stretching ache to accompany the sensation of Peter’s fingers curling inside him.

“A bit of a tight fit, isn’t it?” Peter asks him, pumping his fingers slowly in and out of him. “Does it hurt yet? I bet it will. This is only two fingers – you’re going to be taking three more.” 

“Really? Thank you for the elucidation, Peter, I had _no_ idea what the concept of- of fisting entailed,” Jon says, thick with sarcasm. Or as thick as it can be when Peter seems to double his efforts, shoving roughly inside him and yanking his fingers back out with equal fervor. 

“Do you like this pace?” Peter pulls his hand free entirely, leaning back and bringing it instead to his cock – hard again, Jon notices with something like annoyance – stroking lube up and down its length. “I can think of other ways to work you open, Archivist.” 

Peter stretches over him while Jon’s still considering the obvious implications, to bite another kiss into his lips. For good measure, he drops his hips downs as well, grinds his slick cock against Jon’s until the Archivist is moaning into his mouth, hands rising to clutch at Peter’s shoulders. Peter breaks away and grabs Jon by the wrists, pulling his arms above his head and pinning them to the comforter there. 

“Now, now – keep your hands there, if you please,” Peter says, drawing his own along Jon’s arms to his chest, continuing down and brushing over his sides. Leaving a cool trail of slick wetness behind his right that has Jon’s skin breaking out in goosebumps, the rest of it tingling with pleasant after-shocks of sensation in their wake. 

His fingers curl in the air as Peter presses inside him again, and begins at working a third finger into him. Teasing and probing at his hole, the fingers already inside him hooking and tugging at his rim – an action that has Jon jerking, stimulation that teases the edge of pleasure, of pain, of being simply too much. He shudders, feeling his body clench without his say, and he groans shakily as Peter finally has three fingers stretching him open, sinking down until he can feel the brush of Peter’s palm against him. 

“W-Wait,” Jon says, “Please-”

Which is taken as a cue for Peter to keep going, drawing out until only the tips of his fingers remain inside Jon and surging forward until he’s taken as much as there is to take, and they curl and pet at him from the inside, searching him out. Until, suddenly, there’s a bright burst of pleasure, white blinding light on his synapses, and Jon hears Peter’s pleased, goading tone but not what he says as he begins to circle his fingers around this point inside him, coaxing wave after wave of cresting pleasure into his body. 

Jon gives a plaintive sound when Peter pulls his hand away this time. Peter shushes him, a gentle soothing noise accompanied by the click of more lube being poured on his hand. Being stroked onto his cock, which he lines up against Jon’s hole. Just enough to barely begin to open him on it. Jon shifts his hips, unable to still himself. 

“Jon,” Peter says sternly, and Jon shudders, gaze snapping to his face. His carefully maintained affect seems cracked, at least with hairline fractures – proof that Jon isn’t the only one between the two of them slowly being unwound. “Do you want me to fuck you open?” 

Punctuated by a roll of his hips, the head of his cock catching at Jon’s rim and then sliding off, and Peter repeats the motion, and again. Jon whines in the back of his throat and nods. 

“Yes,” he says, and, “Please.” 

“You’re going to have to be more specific, Archivist.” Cock still teasing at pushing inside him.

“I want you to fuck me open,” Jon pleads. A moan knocked loose from his chest at his immediate reward of Peter’s cock spearing him, of Peter fucking more and more of its length into him with hard, jarring thrusts.

Peter is thick inside him, longer than his fingers, forcing a space for himself inside Jon’s body. He keeps pulling his cock back out, only to work more of it inside him on the next thrust, and Jon shudders at the full feeling of Peter’s dick sliding into him, tip to root, as he slowly bottoms out inside him, hips flush to his ass. Jon feels stretched enough already, muscles spasming and sore – he can’t imagine being made to take more. 

A dread he’ll have to properly consider later, because now Peter is hooking his hands beneath Jon’s thighs and forcing his legs up, not stopping until he’s practically folded in half, knees near his shoulders. Another stretch, more almost painful stimulus burning between his hips, along the backs of his thigh.

And Peter pauses, straightening himself but keeping Jon in this new position he’s found for him. Cock still inside him, too, and Jon flushes at how wide open he is for Peter’s perusal, twisting embarrassment in his stomach that doesn’t do much to stamp out any arousal. Peter raises an eyebrow at him, and shoves at his legs again, spreading him a degree or two further, farther back. 

“Surprisingly bendy, Archivist,” is what Peter says to all that. 

Jon bristles. “What?” 

“There’s no need for the tone,” Peter says, leaning back down to rest over Jon, his body an oppressive weight around him, “I was being appreciative.” 

“Well-” Jon begins, acerbic and annoyed, until Peter bucks his hips forward and jars the air loose from his lungs “-D-Don’t.” 

Peter huffs out a laugh against his neck, where he’s ducked and seems content to run his lips along the skin within reach, pausing whenever he feels Jon shiver beneath him and digging teeth into those sensitive spots. Where touch alone is enough to inspire prickling flesh and tremulous little scatterings of pleasure, heightened to sharp jolts of it, chased by bright, stinging pain from Peter’s teeth, coaxing more and more sensation out of him. Or into him. Jon’s hands twist in the comforter above his head. 

“So, you wouldn’t like to hear about how good you feel around my cock?” Peter asks. Planting a kiss on what is undoubtedly a horrific bruise by the time he’s done sucking and clamping his teeth down on Jon’s neck. 

“No,” Jon answers flatly. “I’m sure that won’t be necessary.” 

“So tight and slick, your muscles trembling, trying to take me,” Peter says, and he’s almost conspiratorial when he adds, “Can’t wait to make you take even more.” 

It shouldn’t send a bolt of heat lancing through Jon’s insides, straight to his cock, and more importantly, Peter shouldn’t _know_ that it does but he gives a self-satisfied, irritating laugh before he draws his hips back and starts fucking Jon in earnest, slow and deep. 

“Or should I tell you how right I was? About how nice you look stretched around my cock, because really, Archivist, it’s a good look for you.” 

“Peter,” Jon sighs his name, increasingly unable to thread together a proper defense. 

Particularly as Peter forces the angle of his body even steeper, gaining more leverage with Jon’s legs hooked around his arms and his weight resting on his elbows. Pounding Jon into the mattress, as though Peter’s loath to leave Jon empty for even a second. Not that Jon would entirely disagree with him at the moment, either. 

Jon hadn’t expected any of it to feel as good as it does, but it’s like all the nerve endings in his body have come alive, swamping him in sensation. Overwhelming sparks of it every time Peter drives his cock in hard, burying himself in Jon, wrenching him open around him. Jon’s own cock is leaking onto his abdomen, neglected by the angle and Peter’s demand keeping Jon’s hands in place. 

And even more than just the physical sensation – or perhaps merely adding to it – is the sense of Peter’s rapidly waning control. As if he can’t keep himself biting Jon, from forcing their bodies closer together. Using him roughly, ignoring any part of Jon’s own pleasure except for his casual trust that whatever he’s doing is going to tear Jon apart as well. It’s actually more annoying that he’s right. 

Peter’s hips begin to stutter, losing their rhythm. He mutters snatches of phrases against Jon’s temple, until Jon presses his face to Peter’s neck. Leaves his own series of bites into the thick muscle stretched between Peter’s throat and his shoulder. Wishing he could drawn Peter closer, still, even with them like this, shuddering when Peter suddenly slams himself deep and stills there, spilling come inside him. 

He straightens, lets Jon’s legs go as he pulls himself abruptly out – Jon gasping a nearly hurt sound at the removal - and angles his dick so that Jon feels the next few pulses of come against his hole, and Peter languidly fucks the mess back inside him anyway. Pushes his cock in and out of him almost gently, milking himself through the aftershocks of orgasm with Jon’s body. He lingers, hand squeezing his dick from base to tip, before he withdraws entirely. 

Little enough reprieve as Peter hooks his thumb inside him and yanks almost cruelly at his rim, chuckling at the jerk Jon’s body gives in response to the sudden stretching. Jon glares at him, an expression that is quick to dissolve when Peter wraps a hand around his still hard cock. Pumping it to the tune of Jon’s body swimming in unadulterated pleasure. 

“Didn’t manage to come, huh?” Peter says, as if it’s Jon’s fault entirely for the state he’s in. That brings the scowl properly back, while Jon’s hips jerk forward, abdomen clenching as Peter hurriedly works him. His breath catching in tightening lungs, entire body winding up tight, and tighter- 

And then Peter lets him go, Jon’s head thumping despondently back against the sheets. 

“Did you really think I’d let you come like this?” Peter’s tone is all gleeful, sadistic amusement. 

“Like what?” Jon demands, short and snapping.

“If you’re going to come, it’s going to be around my cock or hand, understand?” 

Another statement that shouldn’t hook into him the way it does, send his insides to liquefaction and his skin to crawling pleasantly. His cock actually twitches, too, a reaction Peter notices if the sharp-edged smile he gives is any indication. He reaches forward to pet a few strands of sweat slicked hair from Jon’s brow. 

“I asked you a question, Archivist” he says pointedly. 

Jon swallows, mouth feeling dry. “I understand.” 

“Very good. What do you understand?” 

Even with that warm, biting heat tying knots along his insides, Jon manages to roll his eyes before he recites, “If I’m going to come, it’s going to be around your c- your cock. Or hand.” And then, because Jon doesn’t make good decisions, he looks at Peter, challenging. “ _If_ I’m going to come.” 

Peter’s eyebrows raise, but he doesn’t look anything except delighted. “If indeed. It’s like you already forgot I had you begging for my cock all of a few minutes ago. Ah well, I’d be happy to remind you.” 

“I would hardly call that begging,” Jon argues. Splitting hairs. 

“No? Perhaps we should get a second opinion, then. Elias, why don’t you come join us?” 

“It would be my pleasure,” Elias says. 

Jon flushes, snapping his head to the side. Watching Elias rise smoothly from his chair. Elias still looks mostly composed – more composed than either himself or Peter, certainly. His expression is cast into that bland, approachable mask Jon had once never thought to look behind, but it’s not quite enough to smother the intensity of his gaze as it rakes over Jon. 

He joins them on the bed and settles at Jon’s side. He doesn’t look out of place, exactly. It’s just that he’s completely clothed and relatively untouched, so much so that Jon feels distinctly disheveled beside him. There’s nothing particularly judgmental about the way he looks at Jon. In fact, he’s almost fond as he threads his fingers through Jon’s hair, stroking down the side of his face and pressing back when Jon leans into the touch. 

“I thought we had established that you’re here to watch, Elias,” Peter chides, “At least until I say otherwise.”

“My apologies,” Elias says, though his touch trails down the side of Jon’s neck – fingers twisting cruelly into a mark as they pass by, a flare of sharp stinging that leaves Jon taking in a shuddering breath – and lingers across his chest when he withdraws. 

“You two act like I’m not the one doing a favor here,” Peter says. 

“We’re both well aware of how… generous you’re being,” Elias replies, all carefully implicit sarcasm. “And appreciative of the fact. Aren’t we, Jon?” 

“Right,” Jon sneers. “Appreciative.” 

“You particularly, Archivist, have no room to complain. You really have no idea how lenient I’m being,” Peter says, his hand back down between Jon’s leg, finding his hole slick with come and lube and rubbing slow circles around it. 

Jon lets out a quiet, involuntary sound, his hips twitching downward at the light touch, as if his body is already so desperate to be filled again. He flushes at his own reaction. Fingers clawing at the sheets when Peter presses forward just enough to ease him open again, and realizing that the shallow teasing isn’t enough, that he actually wants _more_ of this, and Jon’s unsure which of them is properly to blame for this. 

Jon suspects it might be himself, but it’s much easier to dislike Peter for it. The wide, mocking smile he gives Jon when he takes his hand away. When Jon tries not to vocalize the sense of frustrated loss this inspires. 

“Was he begging, Elias?” Peter asks, almost a non-sequitur. He has a hand on each of Jon’s thighs, splaying him back open. Kneading into the muscles in a way that’s rather nice, all things considered. 

“It seems to me that begging is a rather subjective experience,” Elias states. Jon’s gaze shifts from watching Peter between his legs to Elias, unsurprised to find him looking back. “If Jon didn’t consider that begging, I suppose you’ll just have to work harder to discover what he does.” 

Not exactly the defense Jon might have hoped for. Peter seems thrilled by it. 

“An excellent point,” Peter says. “What do you say, Archivist? Ready to see what it takes to get you to really beg?” 

It’s either anticipation or dread that’s curdling his insides; Jon knows which he would prefer it to be. “I-”

“What am I saying? Of course you are,” Peter answers for him. He winks at the glare Jon levels him with before turning to address Elias again. “Did you enjoy the show by the way? You should come down here and see exactly how well I fucked our Archivist.” 

Jon watches Elias’ eyes tighten, his smile pleasant and strained. “My Archivist, Peter.” 

“If you say so.” 

Elias watches Peter for a moment with an expression that- well, that has been aimed in Jon’s direction at least once before, usually when Elias is beginning to find the ends of his patience. But he goes all the same, leaving Jon’s side to go to Peter’s, and his gaze travels up the length of Jon’s body and back down, focusing on where Peter slides his hands inward along Jon’s thighs to pull him open like a display. 

It causes a clench in his chest not dissimilar to panic, shuddering at the graze of Peter’s thumb across him, lighter than the weight of Elias’ attention fixated on him. Jon brings his arms down finally, so he can prop himself on his elbows to watch them both in turn, ignoring the eyebrow raised in his direction by Peter. Elias reaches forward and trails his own fingers across Jon’s flesh. Circles them around in the slick mess coating him and then Jon’s gasping around Elias’ finger inside him, a slow, smooth slide to the last knuckle. 

“Absolutely incorrigible,” Peter says as he works his own finger in beside Elias’. “Not an ounce of restraint to pool between the two of you.” 

It sends a rush of- something, Jon isn’t sure, uniquely overwhelmed not by the stretch – and the fact that this is something is body has become acclimated to so quickly is a topic he’ll be sure to fret over later – but the sensation of the two of them, both of them, inside him at once. How he can feel the differences between them, shaking and making half choked off noises when they twist and stroke inside him. 

“You have done a commendable job with him, Peter,” Elias admits. His eyes flick back up to watch Jon as he continues, “And you were right – he did look good on your cock. You take this so well, Jon.” 

Effortlessly piercing through him, in a way that Jon is sure Elias is entirely aware of. The arousal that had been ebbing away, lowering to a dull simmer, comes rushing back. Elias’ free hand brackets Jon’s hip, guiding him to cant upwards in a new angle. Sliding a second finger in alongside the first – alongside Peter’s – and Jon clutches at Elias’ wrist near his hip, squeezing until the knuckles go white. 

“I think he’s as ready as he’s going to be, don’t you?” Peter asks. He’s pressing another finger at Jon’s rim, too, and Jon squirms, feeling at a limit. 

“I’m sure you’re right,” Elias says. 

He draws his fingers back and spreads them as he does so, grip tightening on Jon’s hip when he threatens to arch away. Spreads them like he’s holding Jon open for Peter to sink his next finger inside him, and for a moment there’s four of them – his mind catches on the number almost deliriously – four of them thrusting inside him, stinging jolts of ache like a pulled muscle before Elias withdraws entirely, except for where he anchors Jon in place. 

“Elias,” Jon murmurs, though if there was anything to follow it’s lost as Peter angles his fingers inside him, driving hard against that spot that sends biting sparks along Jon’s spine and whites his vision.

“Wrong name,” Peter says. He doesn’t let up, alternates between rubbing at Jon with the pads of his fingers, stroking patterns into him, and harsh jabs that border on painful, until Jon can’t tell if the aborted bucking of his hips against Elias’ hand is an effort to get more or less of the sensation. “Try again, Archivist.” 

“Peter,” Jon gasps. He has to bite into his lip to stifle a frankly undignified noise when Peter’s fingers twist inside him. “Please.” 

“Look at that, Elias,” Peter says. “Already asking for more. Would you say that’s proper begging?”

“Hmm. Not quite.” Jon seeks out Elias’ gaze, languishing under its intensity. Not surprised to find Elias unsympathetic to his plights, but mildly annoyed by it all the same. “I’m sure he can take more from you.” 

“He’s going to.” 

Jon probably should have recognized that for the warning it was. As it is, he finds himself caught off guard by Peter pressing another finger into him, just slightly less pressure than when he and Elias had both been pulling him open. He wills himself to relax, concentrating on the sparks of pleasure Peter flicks to life inside him with less searing fervor than before. His attention almost inexorably drawn to Elias’ hand on his hip. The touch of his other on his inner thigh, holding his leg captive so Peter has his own hands free. 

It’s hardly the worst feeling in the world. Jon likes it, perhaps more than he should. More than he’s comfortable with, certainly, and it’s very nearly too good when Peter shoves his fingers in hard and takes Jon’s cock in hand as well, leaving the Archivist to thrash between the two. Panting with every stroke, increasingly high-pitched sounds carried with his breath, as Peter drags him closer and closer to the edge. 

Only to leave him at its precipice, his cock and every other inch of his body aching in chiming agony. He doesn’t even realize he’s still making noises until Peter pets along his side, shushing him, and Jon clamps his mouth closed, swallowing.

“Please,” he tries again, and he might even admit to begging in this aftermath, “Peter, Christ-”

“It’s all right,” Peter tells him. “You’ll be allowed to come soon, you have my word. And unlike you and your assistants, I keep mine. You remember what I said?” 

Jon nods, though it takes him a few seconds to actually recall what Peter is referring to. “On your cock or hand.” 

“That’s right,” Peter agrees. Jon feels him pull his hand back in scintillating slow motion, acutely aware of how his muscles clench around nothing as Peter withdraws. “You’re not quite on my hand yet, but we’ll get there.” 

It’s condescending, and irritating, and it sends that familiar heat crawling all throughout his body. That irresolvable clash of excitement and dread. 

Elias lets go of him, then, and Jon’s gaze immediately snaps to him. Watching him position himself behind Peter. His arms slip around Peter’s sides, tracing the angles and curves of him. Peter cranes his neck to look at him and Elias- Elias kisses him – the realization of the fact kicks in Jon’s chest – and seems content to continue doing so. 

He shouldn’t care. Jon doesn’t care. They’re two horrible people, kissing each other. Very much in a manner that implies some level of familiarity with the act. He should- he _is_ relieved, they’re focused on each other instead of him. Even though it doesn’t make any sense. Peter’s entire family is dedicated to the Lonely. And Elias is nothing if not beholden to, well, Beholding. 

Or maybe they just enjoy each other way humans do. Nothing, lord preserve him, _spooky_ about their attraction at all. Jon watches Elias’ hands on Peter, the ebb and flow of the two of them together. The wet sheen of Elias’ lips when they part. Flushed and bitten red. Almost annoyed at this being the first outward sign of Elias’ involvement. 

Peter laughs. “That was awfully thoughtful of you, Elias. But then, you always have been a considerate host.” 

“As I told you before, Peter, ensuring your enjoyment is my top priority,” Elias says smoothly. He’s also reaching around him, now, his hands finding Jon’s hips and tugging him closer to the two of them. 

Jon looks between the two of them and asks, “Is physical isolation the only way to feed the Lonely?” 

“Of course it isn’t,” Peter answers. “It isn’t even the most effective.”

“How else do you-”

“Jon,” Elias interrupts him, and Jon snaps his mouth closed with a jarring clack of teeth. “You’re being rude.” 

“No more compulsions until I’m done with you,” Peter says. The only response he allows Jon to give is a gasp at the feeling of Peter’s fingers sliding back inside him. “Would hate to have to gag you before the party’s over.” 

“N-No more compulsions,” Jon agrees. His hips twist at the addition of Peter’s third finger again, Elias’ hands holding him tight enough to bruise. 

Jon feels Peter brush another finger against him and most of his higher thought processes come grinding to a halt. He’d thought it would take longer than it does, but then Peter has been- thorough. It feels like his body offers up only the meekest resistance before Peter has all four of his fingers inside him, guiding them carefully deeper while Elias holds him steady. 

It’s so much– it’s too much. He feels stretched thin, one degree away from snapping entirely, and more keeps coming anyway. Peter’s knuckles rough against his rim and then – another helpless moment of resistance later – rubbing pleasingly inside him, Jon hyperaware of all the intimate details of his fingers and palm from the way it feels like his insides clutch at them. Clutches and opens for them regardless, a flaying of himself separate from the Eye and Elias but, of course, they’re both there too, aren’t they. 

He tries to keep himself quiet, but Jon only ever seems to realize he’s making noises somewhere in the middle of them, cutting off desperate, gasping whines. Peter’s moving his hand, fucking it in and out of him, and Jon’s cock is still heavy and hard against his own stomach, streaking it wet and white. Twitches and leaks when Peter wiggles his fingers inside him. 

“Very close now,” Peter tells him. 

Jon realizes he can feel the crook of Peter’s thumb pressed right up against him, that it’s literally the only thing keeping Peter’s entire hand from being inside him. Realizes that he’s still expected to take more of this, and, Christ, he _can’t_ , he-

“Can’t, Peter, I can’t,” he pants, and moans rather helplessly as Peter withdraws back to just his fingers, and Jon feels him thumbing at his overstretched hole around them. 

“Of course you can,” Peter replies. Massaging against him like he could just coax Jon into yielding open. 

Maybe he could. He’s done it before. But- 

“I-I do have limits,” Jon tries to reason, well-aware that he doesn’t sound particularly reasonable at all, voice shaking and high. 

“Everyone does,” Peter agrees. His fingers shift, thumb tucking up close to them and beginning to ease inside him. “But this isn’t yours.” 

“You don’t know me,” Jon hisses. Even though what he wants to say is something more like _fuck you_ and _stop_ and _keeping going_.

“But I know you, Jon,” Elias says. “Are you really going to be satisfied with stopping now?” 

Elias slides his hand off his hip, petting at the skin he passes on his way between Jon’s legs. The sensitive stretch between his sac and where Peter’s hand is half inside him. Teasing at him the same way Peter is still pressing at him, and Jon leans up to watch them, dizzy at the sight.

“You’re doing so well,” Elias says, repeating himself but it sends the same stoked fervor along Jon’s insides, and it’s only heightened by watching Elias’ hand trail along Peter’s and grab him by the wrist. So that when Peter begins to press more of himself into Jon, it’s Elias guiding him in. “I love watching you like this, Jon.” 

More, and more, until Jon feels separate from every sensation except Peter’s hand spreading him wide. Unable to even try to stop his own babbling now, a mix of both of their names and pleas, to stop, _he can’t, it’s too much_ \- even as his body proves it isn’t, flexes to accommodate whatever Elias – Peter – wants of it. 

There’s a long, aching moment where the stretch becomes unbearable, bright and stinging at the base of his spine and radiating upwards. Peter lingers there, twists his hand while Jon shakes and groans around it, small movements that feel seismic, and then he’s past it. Slid inside him, his hand, his entire _hand_ , Jon’s body wrapped around him. 

Elias pets at his rim, where Peter must disappear inside of him, while Peter rocks his hand inside him and Jon- Jon’s finding it rather difficult to keep up with anything at all, overwhelmed by the sensation of how full he is, how much is inside him, how every subtle movement of Peter’s hand sets his nerves to sparking and leaping. 

“Open your eyes,” Elias says, and Jon does, not remembering when he closed them. When tears began to leak from them, tacky streaks from their corners to his temples. “Good, Jon. Go ahead and look.” 

Jon looks. Down his own body, the tremors he doesn’t even feel anymore wracking up and down his stomach in quivering surges. Past his cock, red and aching, and down where- he can’t see himself, not entirely, but he can see Peter’s arm, the angle of it, and how there’s no denying what’s happened. What continues to happen. 

Peter’s left brushes against his cock and Jon practically jackknifes at the sensation, jarring against his hand inside him. But Peter doesn’t stroke him, he splays his hand flat on Jon’s pelvis, heedless of the wet mess Jon’s made of himself. Presses down hard and, at the same time, grinds his hand up inside Jon. Keeps shifting inside him, too, Jon pinned between his palms, and it’s too much, he knew it, because when he rocks his hips down-

Jon rocks his hips down and comes untouched, around Peter’s hand as promised. To Peter’s startled, delighted laughter and Elias’ soft murmur of _Archivist_ and then it’s all lost to Jon sinking beneath waves of lapping sensation. 

He’s still trembling in the aftershocks of what was, arguably, the nicest orgasm he’s ever had when Peter begins to withdraw from him finally. Taking his time with it, and though Jon feels mostly too far gone to respond to it he still makes a hurt kind of sound when Peter hits that point again, the widest bit of his hand catching against Jon’s hole before he’s finally released. 

He feels distinctly, aching empty, sore and throbbing and open even after Peter’s left him. Slowly dragging the pieces of himself back together while Peter wipes a mixture of lube and his own come off onto Jon’s inner thigh. 

“Well done, Archivist,” Peter tells him, before extricating himself from between his legs. “Debt thoroughly repaid, wouldn’t you agree?” He pats Elias on the chest as he pushes past him, too, leaving a stain across his shirt. “And I trust you can take care of all this?” 

A general gesture towards Jon’s direction before he’s hopping off the bed. 

“Of course,” Elias answers. Jon watches him go – not towards the hall they’d come in from, he thinks, but the ensuite bath that _of course_ Elias’ flat comes with. “How are you feeling, Jon?” 

As if Jon knows. He’s still trying to catalogue that for himself. He feels loose and pliant, oddly relaxed, hurt in various dimensions that he may or may not revisit in the future. But he says, “Fine.” And shivers as Elias guides his legs closed for him. 

“Good,” Elias tells him. Elias is completely dressed, the utter knob, but he sits at the top of his bed, leaning against the headrest, and he draws Jon close. Or Jon is just drawn to him on his own, startled to find the distinction doesn’t matter much to him at the moment. 

Jon pillows his head on Elias’ legs and lets himself feel comforted by the fingers that stroke through his hair. How Elias pets down to his spine and strokes back and forth there. He’s almost drifted off when he suddenly thinks that Elias hasn’t come yet and stirs a bit. Imagining him in his mouth, or thrusting inside him. Filling him again, and his thoughts wander to how _Elias_ would have felt inside him instead-

“Later,” Elias promises. As though he can hear his thoughts or just read the restless lines of his body. “There’s no rush, Jon. Just relax.” 

For once, Jon doesn’t particularly want to argue. He sighs, and wraps an arm across Elias’ legs, and settles back against him.


	3. Chapter 3

Jon thinks he might have fallen asleep. Or perhaps he’s just comfortably drowsing, the pulsing ache of his body buoying him on lowly throbbing waves. Elias is warm beneath him. His hand is a soothing weight on Jon’s back, inspiring little ripples of shivering skin. But Elias starts moving eventually, careful at first, shifting Jon back and forth so as not to overly disturb him. And then his hand leaves him entirely and Jon makes a disgruntled noise, pushing himself up onto elbows. 

Elias is undoing his shirt. Fingers deft and quick while Jon watches, following the path of them upwards until he finds himself meeting Elias’ eyes. Elias already watching him, of course, continuing to do so as he shrugs himself free of his shirt. This is the most Jon has ever seen of Elias. It’s mildly disconcerting in a way he can’t properly classify. There’s just something almost not quite right, seeing Elias in his plain undershirt, as if Jon had somehow associated the clean line press of Elias’ dress clothes with the man himself. 

He eases further up. Careful of jostling himself overly much, and Elias seems to agree, his hands going to Jon’s hips and his eyebrow arching pointedly. But he doesn’t stop Jon from rearranging himself. His grip anchoring and guiding as Jon moves to straddle his lap – lips twitching upward at the quiet hiss of breath Jon looses as his entire lower body seems to jolt and clench in unison. 

The pain that he’s expecting isn’t there. Or if it is, he’s not processing it correctly. And either way it’s not bothering him at the moment. Not distracting him from slipping his hands beneath the hem of Elias’ undershirt to find smooth, warm skin. It feels like something he shouldn’t be allowed to do. To peer behind what’s monstrous and find something so inappropriately human still there. Jon wonders if Elias is going to stop him, or if Peter will, but nothing happens and Elias just leans forward to give him room to pull his shirt free entirely. 

It brings them into rather close proximity. Jon waits for Elias to settle back but he seems content to stay. Hands finding Jon’s waist and sliding backwards from there, running along either side of his spine. Jon rests his own against Elias’ shoulders, tracing the path from his neck outward. His skin is soft. Mostly unblemished, faded little slivers of old scars here and there but nothing so crass as the warped and pockmarked mess Jon himself has. In a shallow place on his throat, at just the right angle, Jon can watch his pulse thrum beneath his skin. 

It’s almost surreal. Jon trails his fingers across every plane of bared skin he can reach, searching out all the idiosyncrasies that individualize Elias. Wondering at the history writ into him, imagining asking Elias, over and over, what happened here – an arching, sickle-like scar that curves between his ribs – or here – a barely raised starburst over the contour of his shoulder. He doesn’t ask. Elias doesn’t offer answers, only the perusal of his body for Jon’s inspection, his own hands wandering lower. 

Lower, onto his ass, and then between his legs. Jon feels his pulse quicken as Elias spreads him, slides his fingers into him. Leans in close to kiss Jon’s chest, where he must feel Jon’s heart sputter and spasm beneath his lips. His free hand soothes upwards again, to the small of Jon’s back, petting at him while his fingers stroke languidly inside him. Jon wraps his arms around Elias’ shoulders. He grips at his hair with one hand and urges Elias to arch up and meet him. 

It’s almost lazy, the way their lips finally meet, the way Elias curls his fingers inside him. It builds that heat inside him all the same, slow swells of vast tides until Jon’s rocking his hips carefully back against Elias’ hand, his cock dragging along Elias’ abdomen. All of his concentration on their points of contact, mouths and skin, almost mindless in the way he seeks more of- everything, all of it, and Jon moans at the loss when Elias slips his hand free but it’s only to release his cock from his slacks and pants – all this, and Elias still isn’t naked – it’s only to take Jon’s hips in hand and position him, pull him down onto him. 

“God, Elias,” Jon breathes, finally breaking the strange silence that had settled around them. Sinking onto Elias’ cock until he’s settled against his hips, his body parting around Elias like it’s been made to take him, all low simmering warmth and gently protesting muscle. 

So different from Peter’s brutal, incessant battering of his boundaries. Elias’ hands on his hips, encouraging him flush to his body. Encouragement that’s hardly needed at all as Jon savors the feeling of Elias inside him, grinding himself downward and feeling Elias gasp and roll his hips up into the movement. 

If he’d ever given thought to what this might be like with Elias – and he hadn’t, not really – it wouldn’t have been this. Slow movements that feel expansive, like upheavals of great bodies of water. He would have thought- Well, he didn’t know. Sharp, snapping motions, the springing of tension that had no other outlet. Frenetic scrambling, all of it fast enough to leave a blank swath open for regret afterwards. 

It isn’t that. Jon’s not sure what it means that it isn’t, unless he takes the easy excuse that he’s tired and sore, and Elias has always been considerate in his own way. Everything is just good, the languid rocking of his hips, Elias’ hands warm and broad and seeming intent on mapping out every expanse of his skin. His fingers come across Jon’s scars like he expects them, knows them intimately already, skipping from one to the next while Jon shivers beneath his touch and feels undone. 

Elias is breathing faster. Angling his body to meet Jon’s movements, content to let him set the pace. Hairs at his temple, the back of his neck grow sweat damp, his skin salty under Jon’s tongue. Human in a way that’s almost gutting, how it ruins the neat categorizations Jon prefers to have. Because Elias can’t be both. Monster and human, there has to be some distinction. 

Elias’ mouth finds his collarbone. Warm and soft until his teeth clamp on to skin and bone, Jon gasping and shifting. Away from his mouth, or into it, they’re close enough that it doesn’t matter and Jon’s not going anywhere, unsure when that decision was made. Elias chuckles into his skin and traces a path up to his neck. 

His tongue laps over an area that inspires a confusing mix of sense memories. Of Peter digging his teeth in and sucking, of Elias’ fingers prodding and twisting, and then Elias overwrites all of it, closes his mouth on a bruise already made and remakes it, turns the impression of teeth in Jon’s neck to his own. It hurts. The spot was already sore and tender, Elias overlapping the mark with a fresh one does nothing to erase any of that. 

It hurts, but- Jon doesn’t know what the but is, except that it’s definitely there. Elias bites him, a fresh spark of sensation every time his teeth close. It throbs through Jon, each pulse, like it goes straight to his cock, makes him lean into Elias’ cock inside him. He has to swallow down a groan when Elias finally pulls his mouth away. 

“There,” Elias says, his usual self-satisfaction heady and breathless, “That’s better, don’t you agree?” 

Jon does, and hardly knows what to do with that information. So he just touches a hand to his neck, still wet from Elias’ mouth, and says, “Well, that’s not going to fade before the workweek.” 

“Almost certainly not.” Smug asshole. Elias reaches up and thumbs at the mark before tightening his hand like an anchor, bucking his hips up into Jon and knocking his breath loose. 

“Can’t leave you two alone for a minute,” Peter says. “Could have sworn you told me I was the top priority here.”

The bed dips somewhere behind Jon as Peter joins them again. He’s tempted to turn and look but Elias keeps his hand cupped on his neck, keeps watching him. 

“You were,” Elias answers, still holding Jon’s gaze. “But as I recall, you declared your debt settled.” 

“Well, that was before I knew our- excuse me, _your_ little Archivist was good to go for another round.” Jon flinches at Peter’s hands on him again. Peter sidles up behind him, tugs him back into his chest. “I suppose that is the beauty of youth, isn’t it?”

A hand finding his cock and squeezing it makes Peter’s meaning clear enough. Like Jon can’t feel Peter’s dick pressing hard at the small of his back. 

“Get off me,” Jon hisses, annoyed. “Debt thoroughly repaid, remember?” 

“The night’s not over just yet.” Peter’s lips brush across his temple in some awful mimicry of a kiss. “Maybe I think you owe me a bit more still. We all want to be friendly, don’t we? I thought I’d taught you a nice enough lesson but if you’re just going to be crawling onto Elias’ cock right after, I have to wonder if any of it really sunk in.” 

“That-That’s not what we agreed to.” 

“Agreements change, Archivist. And besides.” Peter pauses, his voice going downright mean when he continues. “Elias is the one breaking rules. What did I tell you two about touching?” 

“No,” Jon says, voice flat. Batting at Peter’s hand until he’s released. “We were finished. You-” 

He stops, gasping, when Peter plants his hands on his hips instead and grinds them down onto Elias’ cock. Prick that he is, Elias thrusts up into him, too, and Jon abruptly remembers these two know each, have known each other for quite a long time. That he has no actual idea whose side anyone is on. 

“Jon.” Elias must catch some trail of his rapidly spiraling thoughts. He’s pressed his palm flat, low on Jon’s stomach, a soothing motion. “Calm down.” 

“Calm down? We made a deal, Elias, and now-”

“Oh, really Archivist, relax,” Peter interrupts. They must be in an awkward arrangement, all things considered, with Jon in Elias’ lap and Peter has to be half way crawled into it as well from how he’s plastered himself to Jon’s back. “I won’t do anything you won’t like.” 

“And where have I heard _that_ before.” 

“Well? Wasn’t I right? You’re proving yourself quite the little cockslut.” Peter is undaunted by the low, angry growl Jon gives in response, rubbing his cock along Jon’s back as if he’s welcome to. “Honestly, if I’d known how desperate you were to keep yourself filled I would have kept going.” 

“You’ll have to excuse his manners, Peter,” Elias says, infuriatingly apologetic, as if _Jon_ is the issue. But he’s also petting up and down Jon’s sides in firm, elongated brushstrokes of movement, and the way he presses his lips to Jon’s collarbone is- concerning, in its implied sincerity. 

“Elias,” Jon says again, a little helplessly. 

“Relax. As I said, Jon, nothing you won’t like. And something I’m sure Elias and I are both going to like. You want that, don’t you? Don’t you want Elias to have a nice time?” 

Peter has a hand on his cock again, twisting his palm up and down its length. His mouth is against Jon’s neck, his words bleeding into his skin. It leaves him shuddering, sundering, in so many ways. He looks at Elias, who’s watching him, of course, always. And when Peter tells him to lift - _come on now, up you go_ \- Jon complies, guided by four hands until he’s perched with just the tip of Elias’ cock inside him still. 

There’s more awkward shuffling. Peter leaves him in Elias’ care to finally free him of his trousers. 

“Honestly, were you two that eager for it?” he asks. Jon looks behind him, over his shoulder, to frown at the crumpled pile Peter creates on the floor. 

“We had other priorities,” Elias answers. Two fingertips on Jon’s chin leading him forward again, and down, lips meeting his. 

“Impossible,” Peter complains. 

Jon doesn’t particularly care. About anything, except this singular moment, the way his hands have tangled in Elias’ hair to tug him closer. The way the muscles of his thighs tremble and burn from the half crooked and bent position he holds himself in and how he wants to keep feeling it, keep aching just because Elias is asking him to. 

How Elias feels inside him. In his mouth, his tongue coaxing and guiding Jon to the response he wants, always leading him. Resisting the urge to drop back down onto Elias’ cock to feel him fully again. In his thoughts, in his mind, straight through his defenses, plucking secrets from his head. 

It should make him angry. It does make him angry. It soothes that gnawing, desperate hunger inside him as much as it stokes it. 

They’re only parted when Peter rejoins them on the bed, winding an arm across Jon’s torso and pulling him back into his own again. Peter props his chin on Jon’s shoulder. 

“I think we’re in need of some rearranging,” he says. He gives Jon’s neck a little nuzzle that feels entirely sarcastic somehow. 

“Are we?” Jon snipes, trying to shrug him off again. Peter winds both arms around him and squeezes until the air’s forced out of him with a quiet oof. 

“No need to fret, Archivist - I promise I’ll get you back on Elias’ cock as soon as humanly possible.” 

“You aren’t human and neither is he,” Jon huffs. Something compels him to glance almost guiltily back down to Elias at that, but he’s watching the two of them with an obnoxious quantity of obvious amusement. 

“And neither are you,” Peter says, releasing him suddenly. Jon doesn’t have time to overbalance as Peter proceeds to heft him by his thighs and toss him bodily to the side. 

It’s momentarily stunning. A few of the more sensitive parts of his body throb in jolted irritation. The sensation makes it easy enough to pretend that his pulse is racing from sheer annoyance alone. He props himself back up to glare at the man in question. Peter winks at him before he turns his attention to Elias.

“Now, that’s one wrangled-”

“ _Excuse me?_ ”

“-Are you going to play nice, Elias? Or do you find yourself lacking the proper incentive?” 

Elias gives a brief hum, considering. “I suppose I could be convinced to play along.” 

“Convincing, is that what the kids call it these days?” 

“I’m sure you’d know that better than I would,” Elias answers. 

Peter is leaning into him, starting with his mouth on the center of Elias’ chest and working his way with teeth and tongue upwards. Jon isn’t sure why it’s so fascinating to watch. Elias baring his neck beneath the assault, his nails drawing red lines down along Peter’s sides. His back arches to bring them in closer contact while Peter pets at his thighs. 

“Come now, Elias, surely you want to be good for me too?” Peter murmurs in between the press of their lips. “Show him how nice I can be when you behave.” 

“I believe he’s already experienced your kindness,” Elias says, glancing at Jon when he does so. His breath hitches when their eyes meet and Jon wonders if this is how Elias had felt, earlier. Watching him. 

“And I have so much more to give,” Peter says, to a snort from Elias and Jon taking a moment to thoroughly roll his eyes. 

Peter is fully between Elias’ spread legs. At some point his hands wandered upwards, slipped beneath Elias’ ass to encourage him up against him. Elias winds his arms around Peter’s shoulders and lets Peter drag them both downward until Elias is flat on his back and Peter is on top of him. Jon watches his muscles flex and shift as he rolls his hips into Elias’. 

This isn’t a scenario Jon’s actually considered before just this moment. Elias and Peter seem to be quite content in fixating their attentions on one another – one of Elias’ hands has ended up on Peter’s hip, is encouraging their downward driving as they rut against each other. Harsh breathing and slick sounds, short groans that are almost words when their movements must sync just right. 

It's interesting. Jon finds himself wondering what Elias looks like when he comes. Thinking that he wouldn’t mind not being the one to cause it, that it would give him the distance from the event needed to catalogue it properly. 

Peter rights himself with one last bite of a kiss to Elias’ mouth. “Would you believe it if I told you I missed you sometimes?” 

Elias’ answering laugh is surprisingly bitter. He trails his fingers down Peter’s side to his hip, and rubs a slow circle with his thumb. 

“All right, Archivist,” Peter says, jolting Jon from his thoughts. “Come here.” 

Elias is on his back, still watching Peter. Peter is sitting between his legs. Jon glances between the two of them for a moment before he asks, “Come where, exactly?” 

“Oh, Elias, you are planning to keep this one, aren’t you?” 

Jon scowls. “Well, excuse me for not being a bloody mind reader.” 

“That is the plan, yes,” Elias says. Jon wishes very fervently that the part of himself which was irritated by that wording was louder than the part of him that’s embarrassingly pleased by the prospect. 

“Just get over here,” Peter tells him, crooking a finger at him again. Jon is mostly stirred to comply by Elias reaching a hand out to squeeze at his thigh. 

All things considered, it’s a bit easier to be goaded back into straddling Elias’ lap than Jon might have otherwise expected. Peter’s blatant in his appraisal of Jon’s body, shifting him to his own preferences with little regard for what either Elias or Jon has to say about it. And there’s few enough things left to be self-conscious about by this time in their evening, when Elias and Peter both have seen him wholly undone. 

Even so, Jon’s breath is taken as he finds himself chest to chest with Elias, propped over top of him. Elias isn’t focused on Peter anymore. Jon’s barely focused on him, even as it’s Peter lining the two of them up again and pulling Jon back until he’s sunk to the root on Elias’ cock. He gets that same sensation of open perusal, Elias combing through his depths in every way. It’s horrifying, invasive. It shouldn’t feel so welcome. 

“See? What did I tell you, back on Elias’ cock in no time at all,” Peter comments, before Jon hears him fumbling with a bottle, feels Peter’s fingers petting at him where he’s stretched open around Elias. 

“Peter,” Jon says, gasping when he slips a finger in alongside Elias’ cock and tugs at him. “Wh-What are you doing?” 

“Honestly, Elias, where did you get this one, a nunnery?” 

“Nuns are women,” Jon snaps over his shoulder. He does his best to not be mollified in any way by Elias soothing his hands along his sides. 

“Jon doesn’t have the ample wealth of experience you’re drawing from, Peter,” Elias says. It’s hard to tell which of them he’s insulting but Elias presses a chaste, almost apologetic kiss to the side of Jon’s neck. 

“Context clues, Archivist” Peter says, anchoring a hand on Jon’s hip to stop his shifting away. Jon also doesn’t fail to notice that Elias has gone from simply stroking over his body to holding him in place. “I’m getting you ready to take my cock again.”

At first he’s tempted to scoff, because it’s not as though Peter’s cock is so much greater than Elias’ (and it’s wholly, witheringly mortifying that he has the firsthand knowledge to compare them this way, Christ). And then, _context clues_ indeed, as Peter works a second finger inside. 

“No,” Jon says, flat but panicking in some distant corner of himself. “Elias, please.” 

Elias drags fingers through his hair and pulls him into a kiss, which is nice, but not an answer and at this moment, doing little to calm the stark lines of denial thrumming tension into his body. 

“If you want to have both of us, who I am to deny you?” Peter asks him. “It’s going to be fine. I’ve done most of the work already. I’m sure you remember, I had an entire fist up this arse of yours? Lovely arse that it is.” 

Jon jerks his mouth away from Elias’ to gasp as Peter _bites_ said ass, hard enough to hurt. “I-I think having two-” Oh, god, he can’t even say it. “I hardly think the experiences are analogous.” 

“Elias, isn’t that cute? I think he’s intimidated by our combined virility.” 

“Ugh.” 

Elias’ chest is shivering beneath him, and it takes Jon a moment come round from craning his neck to glare at Peter. To find Elias looking absolutely mirthful, clearing his throat as he mostly succeeds at stifling his laughter.

“I’m so pleased the two of you are enjoying yourselves,” Jon sneers, only to have most of the breath knocked out of him when Elias grabs onto his hips and suddenly draws himself out, snapping his cock back inside him and seeming quite intent on fucking his higher cognitive functioning right out of his head. 

Elias and Peter both encourage him to move, even with Peter’s fingers still hooked inside him, guiding him to buck himself down to meet each of Elias’ thrusts. Angles his hips until he’s crying out every time Elias bottoms out inside him, driving his cock into that spot that bursts like sparks behind his eyes. It has Jon clawing at Elias’ chest until he’s shoved forward again and Elias draws his arms around him. 

And Peter has a palm flattened on his lower back, his fingers removed and replaced with the head of his cock, pushing inexorably inside. 

“Oh, fuck,” Jon says intelligently.

It’s hard to tell if it’s more or less than the stretch of Peter forcing his entire hand inside him. Overwhelming in that unique way, that makes him shudder and clench in the memory of Elias and Peter both working their fingers into him. But it’s obviously more than that, Elias already buried deep in him and Peter feeding him more and more of his cock. 

It still hurts, deep ache like overstretched muscles being forced into movement. And it feels good, too, like every possible bit of him has been filled. As if he’s been hollowed out just for this moment. 

“Yes,” Peter hisses between his teeth. “Just like that, perfect.” 

He’s the only one of them to move, but it makes all of them groan. It doesn’t seem possible for there to be room enough inside of him for it, Peter dragging his cock back and ramming his hips forward again. Jon feels almost delirious at the friction of it, the stretch of his muscles accommodating it, Peter fucking him almost without mercy against the thick, heavy weight of Elias still inside him. 

It only gets worse when they seem to find some kind of rhythm. Peter thrusting in when Elias draws himself out, Peter pulling out until it’s just the thick head of his cock holding Jon open while Elias fucks into him, and Jon finds his muscles trembling and finally collapsing around them. The two of them holding him in place while he goes nearly limp and shivering, mouthing at Elias’ neck, his collar, whatever is in reach.

Both of them come inside him. It aches when they pull out, and borders on overstimulation when Peter shoves his fingers inside him and Elias jerks at his cock. He still comes, across his own stomach, to Elias’ soothing voice reassuring him in all the ways he loathes and craves the most. 

“We should get you a plug,” Peter says into his temple, stroking along his ribs. “Help you keep everything we so thoughtfully give in you.” 

“Shush,” Elias actually says. He kisses Jon’s lips. “Only if he asks nicely for it.” 

Jon makes a noncommittal sound and this time, he’s sure sleep takes him, with Elias at his front and Peter curled against his spine.


End file.
